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Sermon – Matthew 5.17-19, UJCCM Ecumenical Service, March 26, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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Several years ago, I was in a Bishop Search process.  Ordinarily, I do not recommend the process – in fact, I often actively discourage the process, because in our Episcopal tradition, the search is very public, exacting, and takes a toll on your parish, even when they are cheering you on and supporting you.  But if I enjoyed anything from the experience, I enjoyed the opportunity to take a wider look at the Church – a wider look at this endeavor we are all undertaking, called being Christian.  One of those defining identity moments happened in one of the public interviews.  A church member at one of the local churches said to me, “Our current bishop is very active politically.  Would you as a bishop continue that political activity, or would you focus on following Jesus?” 

Now we all know that the county our ecumenical group is situated in is decidedly “purple” politically.  I haven’t really asked your clergy about your individual churches, but I know Hickory Neck is also a very “purple” congregation – I often joke that if you took a look at the bumper stickers in our parking lot you would wonder how in the world we peacefully worship every Sunday.  In fact, my own church members have often heard me say that we don’t preach politics, we preach Jesus.

The trouble with that dichotomy is that although Jesus was not a democrat or a republican, he was inherently political.  He lived and breathed in a politically loaded time – something with which we are very familiar.  And although he may not align with our current political parties in the United States, his actions and words have political ramifications on how we live as Christians. 

Now why in the world, on this Wednesday right in the middle of Lent, in the middle of our beloved peacefully ecumenical gatherings would I bring up something divisive?  Well, I blame Jesus.  The gospel lesson we just heard from Matthew is only three verses long.  But in order to understand what is going on, we need to step back just a bit to recall where we are in Matthew’s gospel.  Chapter five of Matthew starts with the beatitudes, and is just the beginning of what we call the Sermon on the Mount – Jesus’ sort of treatise on how to be a Christian – or even more clearly, the answer to “What would Jesus do?”  So, Jesus sits down for an extra long sermon (or at least long for Episcopal standards – I know some of your traditions love a good 30-minute to hour-long sermon!).  He starts with those beloved beatitudes, letting us know where true blessing lies.  He then moves on to talk about being salt and light as disciples in the world.  And then he talks about the law in the portion we heard tonight.

Before we get too far, we have to remember that conversations about the law (not the Roman law, but the very law we heard about in Deuteronomy tonight) – conversations about the law needs to be very careful.  Many a scholar has tried to use this passage to argue the supersessionism of the Chrisitan Church over the Jewish people – as though by Jesus saying he came to fulfill the law that now Christians supersede the Jewish people as God’s chosen.  Jesus has been confusing followers for centuries by this statement – theologians as distinguished at Thomas Aquinas tried to separate the types of law, arguing that we need to follow the moral law, but not the juridical or ceremonial law of the Old Testament.[i]

That is not what Jesus is arguing in these three short verses.  Jesus never intended to bifurcate the faithful in such a way.  Just like Jesus was not saying be a republican or be a democrat, Jesus is saying be a person of faith.  In the verse following what we read today, Jesus says, “For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”  Just like in our day, the faithful of Jesus’ day lived in a politically charged time.  As Stanley Hauerwas explains, “…too often Israel sought to be faithful in a manner that would not challenge the powers, and in particular the power of Rome.  The Pharisees quite understandably tried to observe the law without that observance being recognized as subversive to those who ruled them.”  Like in our day, they were not claiming a particular party, but claiming the faith.  Not preaching politics, but preaching Jesus.

But here’s the problem with that way of life – and quite frankly, the dichotomy that the person in that interview asked me about.  The kingdom of God cannot avoid being subversive.  We know this because Jesus was so subversive that he was crucified – because instead of “…violently overthrowing the old order Jesus creates a people capable of living in accordance with the new order in the old.”[ii]  What does that mean exactly?  Stanley Hauerwas tells us that fulfilling the law means creating a way of life that is unlike the world.  That way of life is voluntary:  you cannot be born into it, but can only join by repenting and freely pledging allegiance to its king (Jesus).  And the next generation is not automatically admitted – every member joins of their own volition.  Two, that way of life creates a mixed community:  racially, religiously, economically.  And finally, that way of life is, well, a new way of life.  Jesus, “…[gives] them a new way to deal with offenders – by forgiving them.  He [gives] them a new way to deal with violence – by suffering.  He [gives] them a new way to deal with money – by sharing it.  He [gives] them a new way to deal with problems of leadership – by drawing upon the gift of every member, even the most humble.  He [gives] them a new way to deal with a corrupt society – by building a new order, not smashing the old.  He [gives] them a new pattern of relationship between man and woman, between parent and child, between master and slave, in which [is] made concrete a radical new vision of what it means to be a human person…”[iii]

I do not know what your Lenten discipline has been this year.  Given the weight of the political environment, the anxiety floating around in the atmosphere, and the sense of radical challenge, doing things like giving up chocolate or screen time or meat has not felt, well, meaty enough for me this year.  I think part of the challenge has been the sober, somber nature of Lent has felt so congruent with the sober, somber nature of everyday living these days.  Perhaps why Lent feels so heavy is because I can see no way to answer that dichotomy of a question, “Will you be political or will you follow Jesus?” 

I do not think our invitation tonight is to leave this place planting our red or blue flags.  In fact, our invitation might just be carrying our purple flags out of this space while helping others see and experience Jesus.  The new way of life that Jesus laid out for us – of forgiving, suffering, sharing, empowering, building, relating – is not unique to one political party.  Our invitation is to support that new way of life through Jesus in all political parties – republican, democrat, independent, or whatever else you may be feeling tonight.  That new way of life is so subversive that members of your own party may challenge you, and like a Pharisee, you may want to be a Christian while not rocking the boat.  But following Jesus means rocking the boat.  Following Jesus means loving neighbors, caring for the less than, respecting the dignity of others.  Following Jesus means sometimes following him out of the boat into some scary, stormy waters.  But if we can sit together in this room – as Presbyterians, Methodists, Lutherans, Episcopalians, Baptists, Mennonites, Roman Catholics, and Disciples of Christ – surely we can step into those waters together outside of this room, witnessing another way…together.  Amen.

[i] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew: Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 65.

[ii] Hauerwas, 67.

[iii] Hauerwas, 67-68.

On Children, Questions, and Dignity…

06 Wednesday Dec 2023

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Photo credit: https://www.adl.org/resources/tools-and-strategies/respecting-dignity-words

We have been having lots of “big” conversations around our house the last couple of weeks.  The first happened when my younger child and I went to shop for our Angel Tree gifts – an annual tradition from our church and the Salvation Army.  Our girls tend to prefer to choose someone their age – perhaps because they feel more equipped to imagine what someone their age wants, or because it helps them feel a sense of camaraderie.  This year, the nine-year old we selected ended up being quite different from the nine-year old in our family.  Though the toys she wanted were familiar, the size of clothing needed made it obvious that the two girls could not be more different.  So, in the middle of a store, I found myself having a deep conversation about genetics, systems of poverty, and the blessed nature of all creation.

Later, the conversation turned heavy again.  Something came across the same nine-year old’s radar about Israel and Palestine, and the barrage of questions were endless and increasingly difficult.  We started with why they were fighting, talked about what each side had done, and what the impact of this war has been.  Eventually we got into the murky waters of the religious backgrounds of the warring sides – careful to talk about the interconnectedness of the Abrahamic faiths.  But then came the gut-punch question, “So, who do we want to win?”  Talking about war and peace, death and destruction, and the biblical complicatedness of the Holy Land was not exactly the conversation I was expecting between school, dinner, and various sports practices.

One of the disadvantages of being a “grown up” is we often think we have things figured out:  capable of complicated thought, educated and experienced, we have seen enough of life to understand its complexities and make judgments based on our learnings.  It is one of the many reasons why I am so grateful for the children in our lives – both my own, but also our community’s children.  As part of their village, our work is to responsibly help them see the complicated, often sinful, nature of humanity, and help them love humanity in all its complexity.  In essence, children help us see why one of the main promises in our baptismal covenant is we will respect the dignity of every human being.

As we bustle around the Advent season, tempted to be too busy to handle anything other than our massive to-do lists, I invite you to slow down.  When we run so fast and when our minds are so occupied, we miss the invitations to respect the dignity of every human being:  from our neighbors impacted by poverty, to the frazzled parent just trying to get their children to school, to the person suffering within their body, to the innocent bystanders of war.  Scripture tells us that each person, when they are at their best or their worst, their strongest or their weakest, their most successful or their most failing, are made in the image of God.  Whether we like them or not, Jesus asks us to respect the dignity of that creation every day.  How might you better respect the dignity of the humans around you today?

Sabbatical Journey…On Hope and Humanity

29 Thursday Jun 2023

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West Yellowstone (reuse with permission)

I often find myself worried about the state of humanity.  Between our bitter American politics – where the art of compromise seems lost, the nasty interpersonal ways we interact with one another (don’t get me started about my local newspaper’s anonymous section), the way we are almost desensitized to mass violence, and the never-ending presence global warfare, I sometimes find it difficult to see hope or redemption for humanity.

But today was not one of those days.  Today was all about community and shared connection.  It started when we drove through Grand Teton to get to Yellowstone.  We had already had our Teton experience but were hoping to get a last view on our way out of town.  But a thick fog fell on the whole area, and my immediate thought was one of sorrow for all the beautiful sights today’s visitors would miss.  Later, at Old Faithful, we sat waiting for about thirty minutes to see the iconic geyser.  Swarms of people were gathered from all over the country and the world.  But when the geyser finally blew, the united gasp and cheers of joy made me feel like the barriers between strangers were immediately leveled.  Finally, at a community theater in West Yellowstone, we enjoyed a musical in a small venue with a variety of people.  With interaction encouraged, kids invited on stage to sing before the show, laughter, and the love of theater, I felt a true sense of connection to the gathered community.

Of course, I am unlikely to see most of the people I spent time with today again.  So, in the strictest definition, I was not building community.  But what was happening was the fulfilling of my baptismal covenant – where we were all respecting the dignity of every human being.  I think we make that promise in baptism because that is the real first step to building community:  respect, and being able to see the sacred in every person created in the image of God.  When we do that, all that hopelessness about humanity fades away.

If you have not looked at someone today with that kind of reverence, I invite you to give it a try.  Maybe you just watch people a little more gently (remembering days when you were “in a mood,” or when parenting was just super hard).  Maybe you offer a hand or an encouraging word.  Or maybe tonight you pray for someone you never actually met but crossed paths with during the course of the day.  I look forward to seeing how Jesus softens your heart and gifts you renewed hope!

Sermon – Matthew 5.21-37, Sirach 15.15-20, EP6, YA, February 12, 2023

15 Wednesday Feb 2023

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As a teenager, in my rural southern United Methodist Church, our Sunday School class each week was an in-depth Bible Study of some book of the Bible.  I have a distinct memory of one particular class where a condemning text arose about divorce.  My Sunday School teacher herself was divorced and was happily and healthily remarried.  I remember being aghast and indignant about the text, questioning my teacher about how divorce could be seen in such a condemning way, holding in my mind how beautiful my teacher’s current marriage was.  Her response to me was a defeated admission of judgement for herself and her husband that would not be remedied.

Once upon a time, I might have told you that faulty biblical interpretation like this is what drove me from the Methodist church to the Episcopal Church.  But the truth is, there have been many a times when Episcopalians do not fare much better.  When confronted with gospel lessons like we have today from Matthew, most Episcopalians are more likely to either brush hard texts under the rug, or minimize and point you to something shiny, like “It’s all about love, so don’t worry about that pesky Biblical passage.” 

Instead, today I invite us to acknowledge that Jesus’ words in Matthew’s gospel are hard.  When Jesus tells us we cannot approach the altar without being reconciled in our broken relationships, or that our natural urges are so destructive we should gouge out our eyes, or that divorcing or lying are gravely dangerous offenses, we get nervous and even defensive.  Where is that Jesus of love we like so much?  Is not this a place where we claim all are welcome?

In order to understand scripture today – in a way that is neither defeatistly resigned nor superficially glossed over – the discomfort we may be feeling today is actually a good thing.  The first thing you need to know about Jesus is that he was a skilled rhetorician.  Much of what you hear today about ripping eyes out and cutting off hands are used not literally, but figuratively to point to something very important:  the central importance of relationships in the community of the faithful.[i]  Jesus wants to shock and provoke, to unsettle and destabilize, because he wants to invite a reorientation.[ii]  I find theologian Stanley Hauerwas’ explanation the most helpful.  He argues, “Jesus does not imply that we are to be free of either anger or lust; that is, he assumes that we are bodily beings.  Rather he offers us membership in a community in which our bodies are formed in service to God and for one another so that our anger and our lust are transformed…Jesus is not recommending that we will our way free of lust and anger, but rather he is offering us membership in a people that is so compelling we are not invited to dwell on ourselves or our sinfulness…If we are a people committed to peace in a world of war, if we are a people committed to faithfulness in a world of distrust, then we will be consumed by a way to live that offers freedom from being dominated by anger or lust.”[iii]

Now I can tell you about how progressive Jesus words are about divorce since women were socially and economically marginalized by divorce at the time,[iv] or I could address anger, lying, or lust.  But all of these four vignettes are meant to point our attention not to the salacious nature of Jesus’ words, but what Jesus is trying to do for us.  Being a part of Hickory Neck or the wider body of Christ means our bodies are part of Christ’s body – that, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggests, we are so in communion with Jesus’ body that our infidelity is not just a sin against our own body, but against Jesus’ body.[v]  We come here not just to reassure our own selves, and to find restoration for our souls, but also to be a part of something bigger.  To become disciples, finding a purpose much bigger than our naturally self-centered ways, means becoming part of the larger body of Christ – a body that mends broken relationships, restores others to wholeness, and values the dignity of every human being.

The good news is that you do not join that body of discipleship alone.  Everyone of us here is on the journey to being a different kind of human than the outside world would have us be.  In fact, the reason we do this work together is we are better together than we ever could be on our own.  We hold each other accountable, we keep working on reconciliation when we fail, we offer grace and love in our very humanness.  The choice is ours.  As Sirach aptly describes today, the choice is always before us – the choice of life or death, of fire or water.  Our invitation today is to choose relationship – to choose the life of discipleship that joins us to the body of Christ, that roots us in the love of Christ, and enables our work of light in the world.  We cannot do the work alone.  Our invitation is to choose the love and light of Christ that we find his body, the Church, and in the relationships we find here.  Amen. 

[i] Ronald J. Allen, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 359.

[ii] Anna Case-Winters, Matthew.  Belief:  A Theological Commentary on the Bible (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2015), 84.

[iii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006),  69.

[iv] Case-Winters, 81.

[v] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, as referenced by Hauerwas, 70.

Sermon – John 13:1-17, 31b-35, MT, YB, April 1, 2021

28 Wednesday Apr 2021

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One of the things I have learned over the years is the mixed blessing of offering pastoral care from personal experience.  The mother who lost an adult child both feels gratified to help someone else going through the same situation and angry that she is now an expert in grieving the loss of an adult child.  The man who has been through addiction is honored to help someone else through addition – and yet wishes he were not so personally knowledgeable.  The divorcee talking to a dear friend whose marriage has recently crumbled shares, “Welcome to the club you never wanted to belong to.”

As we started thinking about how to honor Maundy Thursday in a pandemic when many of the things we would normally do on this night are forbidden, we thought the same:  we already know how to do this.  We learned last year that when we cannot experience the intimacy of footwashing, the grief of the last holy meal before Easter, the dimming of the lights, the stripping of the altar, and walking out of this space in silence, turning to a totally different liturgy can create another kind of comfort.  We turn to Evensong in the hopes that another ancient tradition, one the Church celebrates almost everyday in the Cathedrals, Minsters, and colleges of the Mother Church in England, will ease the mourning of yet another loss during this time of pandemic.

But being experts in how to cope in a pandemic – either liturgically, emotionally, or spiritually – does not make the grief any easier.  We still feel the absence of what has been – almost as much as we feel the pending absence of Jesus when we will lay him in a tomb tomorrow.  Having figured out how connect with our community digitally, enjoying seeing people’s names pop up on Facebook, and loving hearing the sounds of our Choral Scholars coming through our TVs and laptops on YouTube, certainly has sufficed in these days – and in fact has brought many people into Hickory Neck who had never experienced Hickory Neck before.  But all of that does not negate our grief that a year later we are still in this liminal time of “not yet.”

So, what do we do with this internal tension that we are not yet where we are going, and certainly not fully who we have been?  I like to look at Jesus in our gospel lesson tonight.  Jesus knew what was coming on this night too.  He knew Judas, his beloved companion on his pilgrimage, was going to betray him.  He knew great tragedy was coming, abandonment by the other disciples would happen, and humiliation, pain, and death were inevitable.  Sitting in the upper room, in the tension of no longer being just a rabbi and not yet the risen Messiah, Jesus could have easily wallowed in grief.  Instead, in that overcrowded, tense upper room, Jesus gets up, takes off his outer robe, and ties a towel around his waist.  In the face of pending doom and tremendous transformation, Jesus bends down, and washes feet.  When the world is in chaos, Jesus does the work of humble service, of respecting the dignity of others, of an everyday deed of loving his neighbor.

We cannot possibly know when church will begin to feel familiar and comfortable.  We do not know which changes we have experienced in the last year will become permanent.  We cannot know the lasting impact of this pandemic on the fabric of our lives.  But we do know what Jesus says tonight.  In the face of the unknown, Jesus says to do two things:  to serve others as he served his disciples and to love one another.  Jesus makes everything quite simple tonight.  In the face of disorienting new realities Jesus says: serve and love. That is our invitation in this most sacred week – when our grief and frustration are sometimes paralyzing, engaging in the work of serving and loving are the actions that will give us strength for the days and weeks ahead.  Amen.

On Vaccines and the Cross…

24 Wednesday Mar 2021

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Last week I got my first vaccine shot.  Although I am relatively young and healthy, our commonwealth updated the 1B category to include clergy.  So, when my email came to setup an appointment, I was giddy with excitement.  A flurry of joyful texts went out to friends, I had a permanent smile for the day, and there might have been some dancing.  The day of the vaccine was not much different.  Long lines usually bother me, but I have never smiled so much while just waiting.  Had we not still been in a pandemic, I might have hugged every volunteer and staffer who processed me through the various stages.  And though I have had hundreds of shots in my lifetime, I have never so eagerly proffered my arm for a shot. 

But it was not until I got in my car that I lost it.  Tears burst out of me as the emotions from a year of pandemic spilled out.  Not until that moment did I realize how much I had been holding in – trying to be strong for my family, my church, and even myself.  I still have over a month to go before I get my second shot and work my way through the waiting period, but that one little prick of a needle was the first real sign of hope for me.  I may finally get to see my family, after a year and a half of their absence.  I may finally be able to offer hospitality in my home to others without a sense of panic about safety.  I may finally feel a sense of freedom that has been absent for so long and whose value I never fully appreciated.  The tears that were streaming were the release of a year’s worth of weight on my shoulders.

Of course, even with the overwhelming joy of that day, I know our work is still not yet done.  But somehow the gift of that vaccine shifted the weight of that continued work.  Now my mask-wearing and social distancing is not so much out of fear or self-preservation.  Now my mask-wearing and social distancing can be a witness of Christ’s love for others.  From the beginning, I have said our safe practices were an act of loving our neighbor as ourselves and respecting the dignity of every human being.  But now those acts will not just be an added bonus to self-protection – they will be an act of agency, of choosing to care for others when the selfish thing to do might be to value newly regained freedom over all else. 

As we prepare for Holy Week, I am aware of the symbol we will be turning toward next week.  We will be walking toward the cross until the day of resurrection on Easter.  We will watch, and pray, and sing, and grieve as our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ witnesses the ultimate form of sacrificial love.  In this season of COVID, the cross is our invitation to love like Jesus taught us.  I look forward to making that walk with you this year in new and profound ways.

Photo credit: https://signsofthetimes.org.au/2020/04/the-power-of-the-cross/

On Hope, Sobriety, and Better Angels…

20 Wednesday Jan 2021

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Photo credit: https://www.juneauempire.com/life/living-growing-the-better-angels-of-our-nature/

We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.  ~Abraham Lincoln, Inaugural Address, March 4, 1861

This morning, as we await the inauguration of our next President, I find myself equally sober and hopeful.  I am sober today because I am still reeling from the attempted insurrection in our Capitol Building just weeks ago.  That event signaled to me how much damage has been done to the fabric of our nation – how divided we have become, how hateful we have become, and how far we have strayed from our baptismal promise to respect the dignity of every human being.  I am sober because I know simply changing Presidents will not magically solve the division that took many years of cultivation.  We have much truth telling and healing to do. 

But my sobriety is balanced with hope.  Again, I have this hope not because I think our President Elect is the Messiah – we already have one of those!  But I am hopeful because being hopeful is the nature of being made in the image of God.  I am hopeful we will find our way back to our baptismal identity, of seeking and serving Christ in all persons, and striving for justice and peace among all people.  I know we have a long way to go.  Our black brothers and sisters have shown us this year how far we have to go in the movement toward respecting the dignity of every human being.  But somehow, seemingly impossibly, I am hopeful.

I was reminded today of the quote above from Abraham Lincoln’s first inaugural address, given on the brink of Civil War.  He had no idea what the future held and how our nation almost fell apart – and the very long road it would take (and is still taking) to recover.  But even then, on the cusp of some of our darkest times as a nation, Lincoln was convinced that we had better angels of our nature.  Perhaps that is where my hope comes from today too.  I am convinced that we have better angels still, and that, with God’s grace, we will be touched again by the better angels of our nature.  That is my prayer for all of us today!

Sermon – Luke 16.19-31, P21, YC, September 29, 2019

02 Wednesday Oct 2019

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I was listening to my favorite preaching podcast this week, which is hosted by three to four seminary professors and scholars.  Usually they spend about a third to half of the podcast talking about the gospel lesson, and then spend the rest of the time on the three other lessons.  But this week, the focus on the gospel was pretty truncated.  In fact, one of the scholars basically said, “If you are looking for some new knowledge or some hidden message in this gospel, there isn’t one.  This one is pretty straightforward.”[i]  After a convoluted, at times ambiguous, lesson last week about a crooked manager who gets praised for his deviousness, this week’s gospel has very little ambiguity.  You can almost hear echoes of Luke’s beatitudes from chapter 6, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God….but woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation.”[ii]

We could easily read this parable about the rich man and Lazarus and think, “Wow that rich man really messed up; I am so glad I am not rich so I do not have to worry about that kind of poor behavior.”  But here is the thing:  Jesus is not telling a story about “that guy.”  The fact that Lazarus has a name but the rich man does not gives us a big interpretive tool for this parable.[iii]  This is not a parable about a man who messed up ages ago.  This is a parable for faithful people everywhere who daily must navigate the truth of scripture with the reality of being persons of wealth.  Our very citizenship in this country means that we are people of wealth.  We are the rich man.

So, if we are the rich man, what can we learn from him?  Unlike in our passage a few weeks ago, Jesus is not telling us to give up our possessions so we are no longer rich.  What Jesus is saying is our wealth will make behaving faithfully very difficult.  Later, Luke will tell us behaving faithfully with wealth will make getting into the heavenly kingdom as difficult as getting a camel through the eye of a needle.  Jesus warns us because wealth has a corrosive impact on our lives.  Wealth can make us confuse wants with needs.  Wealth can make us think we somehow deserve wealth – as if we did something to earn favored position in life, instead of blessing coming from the grace of God.[iv]  Wealth can deaden our empathy, turning us inward, slowly turning us into people who avert our eyes in the face of poverty, who dehumanize those in poverty, seeing them as servants instead of equals, who become convinced just being Christians and not living as Christians is enough.

We can see how the rich man in our parable gets there.  We are told his clothing is of fine quality.  He eats sumptuously every day.  He clearly ignores Lazarus, sitting by his gate every day.  We know he actively ignores Lazarus because we find later he knows Lazarus’ name without ever having reached out to him.  Even in his death, the rich man is buried with dignity and care.  Therefore, his behavior in Hades, or Sheol, should be no surprise.  Even in suffering afterlife, the rich man dehumanizes Lazarus.  He regards Lazarus as a servant and messenger who can be ordered around to bring him water or warn his brothers.  When your whole life has been blessed by wealth, slipping into a pattern of forgetting to respect the dignity of every human being is quite easy.

The judgment of the parable is both gentle and direct.  Beloved father Abraham, who gathers Lazarus into his bosom, still sees the humanity in the rich man.  Calling him “child,” he almost sadly has to remind him of his poor earthly behavior.  When the rich man desperately tries to help his living brothers, Abraham finally has to be firmer.  Like the beloved father he is, Abraham draws a definitive boundary.  As the rich man insists his brothers need a personal testimony to change their own wealthy behavior, Abraham reminds the rich man they have already been warned by Moses and the prophets. And if any of us wonder if Abraham is being overly dramatic, we need only catalogue the scripture lessons warning about wealthy behavior:  Exodus 22.21-22, 23.9, Leviticus 19.9-10, 19.33, 23.22, Deuteronomy 10.17-19, 15.1-11, 24.17-18, Amos 2.6-8, Hosea 12.7-9, Micah 3.1-3, Zephaniah, Malachi, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and on, and on, and on.[v]  And Abraham is not even talking about Jesus’ warnings.  Even later letters, like we heard today in the first letter of Timothy, take up the mantle.

So if our very citizenship makes us like the rich man, what can we do to resist the corrosiveness of wealth?  The gospel lesson today seems to suggest three things.  First, one way to combat the seductive lure of wealthy living is to root ourselves in Scripture and Christian community.  One of the things our Discovery Class attendees are learning is how steeped in Scripture Episcopal worship is.  Just by coming to church on Sundays, we hear a large portion of the Bible’s words.  Add in our songs and our prayers, and suddenly we find our liturgy is dripping with the words of Scripture.  Coming to church and hearing hard texts like this one and the ones we have been having for weeks, we find ourselves among a community of people who want to live life differently, and need Holy Scripture and each other to do that.  Of course, reading and praying with scripture and your Prayer Book outside of Sundays doesn’t hurt either.

Second, another way to resist the pull of wealthy living is to spend time examining the chasms in our lives.  Abraham insists Lazarus cannot help the rich man for many reasons; one of those reasons is the great physical, uncrossable chasm between the two realities the men now inhabit.  But that chasm is just a reflection of the chasm that existed on earth too – the rich man’s gate that prohibited connection, help, or even awareness of Lazarus’s suffering and need.[vi]  We create those same chasms, those same gates in our everyday lives too.  We ignore the dilapidated housing we pass on our drives, we allow ourselves to forget the vast number of students on reduced and free lunch in our schools, we choose homes and sidewalks that allow us to avoid the homelessness we meet every winter at the Shelter.  Today’s gospel lesson encourages us to use our eyes to see, really see, the gates we have built and to begin to dismantle them.

Finally, another way we fight the power of wealth is to use the wealth for goodness – to shine our light into the world, as our stewardship team will be encouraging us to do this month.  I know that kind of charge can feel overwhelming – we could give away every cent we have and not heal every Lazarus we meet.  I am not saying we should not use some of our wealth to try – whether we give to the Lazarus in front of us, the non-profits that create support systems for Lazaruses, or, and particularly important, we use our wealth to support this faith community:  the community that teaches us how to be faithful, that brings together the community of support we need to follow Jesus, and that propels us into the world as enlightened people of faith.  As the dishonest steward taught us last week, we can use our corrupting wealth for goodness.  We can use the precarious nature of wealth to be agents of light in the world – to shine our lights as Hickory Neck.

The work will be difficult.  Jesus assures us the work will be hard and shows us that reality in parable after parable.  But we are encouraged today because of the people in this room.  This is a community of people who not only give us a sense of belonging and support, this is also a community of people who have your back in figuring out this whole faithful Christian living thing.  This is a community of people who vulnerably, humbly, and joyfully are willing to walk with you.  We can shine our lights because each person in this room is shining their light too.  Together we can do the work to open gates, dismantle closed doors, and fill in chasms of separation.  Together we can turn the lure of wealth into a tool for goodness.  Together we can show the world another way, shining our lights.  Amen.

 

[i] Matt Skinner, “Sermon Brainwave #682 – Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Ord. 26),” September 21, 2019, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1180 on September 24, 2019.

[ii] Luke 6.20, 24

[iii] Charles B. Cousar, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 117.

[iv] Fred Craddock, Luke, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 196.

[v] Luke Timothy Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, Sacra Pagina Series, vol. 3 (Collegeville:  The Liturgical Press, 1991), 253.

[vi] Skinner.

On Stories, Remembering, and Healing…

11 Wednesday Sep 2019

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Today marks the eighteenth anniversary of September 11, 2001 – a fateful day in the United States.  Even eighteen years later, this is a day where we as a country remember – remember where we were that day, remember the people who were touched by tragedy that day, remember how a single day could transform a nation and the world.  This day hangs heavy in our consciousness each year, the weight never quite lifting even with the passage of time.

I think part of why this day is so heavy for us as a people is because of the people this day touched.  Certainly, we could look at the death toll, and recall the names of the almost 3,000 people who died that day, most without the opportunity to say goodbye to their loved ones.  But September 11’s reach went beyond those who died.  The ripple of that day is mind-blowing:  those who were physically injured, those who were bereaved, those who were supposed to be in those buildings and somehow life’s circumstances kept them away, those whose health continues to be poor from living nearby or helping with the cleanup efforts, those who walked for hours fleeing danger, those who made hard decisions that day – some leading to life and some leading to death.

Four years after that fateful day, NPR’s StoryCorps launched their September 11th Initiative.  A program built around having people tell their stories, StoryCorps launched an effort to record the stories of that specific day – of the man who traded shifts that day and whose mentor died because he had volunteered to take his shift; of the man who consoled his wailing two-year old and had to wait four months before his wife’s body was finally identified; to the woman who sifted through bones and debris in a hanger months later, trying to help people find closure; to the airline employee who checked in the terrorists that day at the gate; the father who lost both sons, one a firefighter and one a police officer, in the line of duty that day.  Every story, every single one is gut-wrenching and tear-evoking.  And every one gives a tiny glimpse into the magnitude of the ripple effect this one day had on all of us.

This day, I invite you to honor September 11 with stories.  Talk to your neighbors, friends, and strangers about their experiences.  Listen to stories like the ones on StoryCorps.  Read whatever stories you can find.  When we engage in one another’s stories, we engage in honoring the dignity of every human being, something we pledge to do in our baptismal covenant.  We allow the depth of this day to do something to us.  And somewhere in that intimacy of story, we begin to hear an invitation – an invitation to honor life today.  Whether it is an act of kindness (maybe even the kindness of simply asking someone to tell their story), or whether it is a time of prayer to honor all that has been, or whether it is a commitment to reclaiming love so that hatred can never win in such a powerful way as it did that day.  May our stories help us connect to the cosmic story of a God who loves us and gives us light in the darkness.

Homily – Luke 10:25-37, P10, YC, July 13, 2019

17 Wednesday Jul 2019

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Last Sunday, a group of parishioners gathered to watch Won’t You Be My Neighbor, the documentary about Fred Rogers.  There were countless things I could tell you about this film, but one thing that really grabbed my attention was toward the end.  The film documented a criticism of Mr. Rogers as raising up a generation of people who feel and act entitled.  You see, one of the primary lessons from Mr. Rogers is he loves each individual, just as they are.  No changes are necessary; no fault is too big.  Mr. Rogers loves you just as you are.  You can hear the words of God in Mr. Rogers’ words – God too loves us unconditionally, and certainly loves us better than any human ever could.  However, Mr. Rogers’ critics would argue if everyone is loved just as they are, then surely they do not need to improve, or earn respect, or work hard.  But the film asserts something quite different.  The film asserts without being recipients of unconditional love, individuals cannot be givers of unconditional love.  In other words, to respect the dignity of every human being, one must first learn how sacred one’s own dignity is – one must be shown how she or he is a person with dignity to be respected in order to know how to respect the dignity of others.

That sense of each person having profound, sacred dignity is one of the main lessons of our gospel today.  The Good Samaritan is one of those stories that is so widely known all I need to do is say, “the Good Samaritan,” and we likely already know the story.  We might automatically recall, “Oh, that’s the story Jesus uses to tell us to be like the Good Samaritan – to be kind to others.”  In one sense, our recollection would be true – at the heart of Jesus’ story is a message to be kind to all.  But what that simple summary misses is the finer details to this story.

You see, those two people who separately pass the victim along the road, are a priest and a Levite.  These two people are not just people of faith – they are keepers of the faith.  They know the laws better than most people of faith.  You may have heard over the years the logic that priests or Levites could not risk being defiled by touching the body of the victim, and so that is why they went around the victim.  But the truth is, their avoidance had nothing to do with defilement – they were heading away from the temple and therefore were not in need of ritual purity, and any good priest or Levite knows they were expected to check on this victim; should he be dead, they should help bury him, and should he be alive, they should tend him.[i]  Basically, these are good, trained people of faith, not fulfilling their duty to love their neighbor as themselves.

But perhaps even more significant is the identity of the Samaritan.  The story does not say, a priest and Levite passed, but another faithful Jew came to the victim’s aid.  The story says, a priest and Levite passed, but a man whose people are mortal enemies of people of faith – who has persecuted, defiled, and subjugated people of faith – is the one who helps.  Saying “The Good Samaritan,” is like saying, “The Good Murderer.”[ii]  That this typically hated man is the one who shows mercy, kindness, and love is shocking.  The hearers of Jesus’ story are shocked, and our ears need to be similarly shocked.  Asking us to respect the dignity of every human being is already a monumental task; respecting the dignity of every human being is inconvenient, is humbling, and involves a willingness to be wrong about others.  Respecting the dignity of every human being means being willing to see how the best of the faithful fail at kindness, and how sometimes our worst enemies are better people of faith than we are.

Today we are baptizing a child of God.  Her parents, godmothers, and our community will make promises today – to raise her in the community of faith, to show her to love and respect, to fight for justice and peace, to share the word of God, and to repent when she messes up.  We say those words today as we reaffirm our own baptismal covenants; but sometimes we forget how revolutionary the covenant is.  We are agreeing to teach Selah to live a revolutionary life.  When we say we will teach baby Selah to respect the dignity of every human being, we are saying we will teach her the hard work being inconvenienced and humbled in order to care for others.  When we say we will teach her to love her neighbor as herself, we are saying we will teach her that even her greatest enemies are worthy of love.  When we say we will teach her to repent when she sins, we are saying we will teach her to be willing to admit when people who we have deemed unworthy of love and care show us what true kindness really looks like.

Today, when we hear Christ’s words to “go and do likewise,” we can be encouraged that Jesus empowers us to make some promises.  Today we look at Selah’s precious, innocent face, and we promise to walk with her as she discovers how hard this work of being a faithful follower of Christ really is.  Today, we promise to confess to Selah the times when we have failed to love our neighbors as ourselves.  Today, we promise when those we despise, those who hurt us, those we cast out because they are not like us, those we can no longer see humanity in ask us, “Won’t you be my neighbor,” we will say with Selah, “Yes.  You are my neighbor too.”  Amen.

[i] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus (New York:  Harper One, 2014), 99-102.

[ii] Levine, 105.